Invisible Company
by itsajensenthing
Summary: One-shot short: These were the nights Dean couldn't escape the screaming. When he was left alone in a dark motel room with no case to research or any company to distract himself with. It was these nights that the fight to make it through one more day was weakened and the desire for exile was all he could think about.


_**Title: Invisible Company**_  
_**Rating: T**_  
_**Word Count: 1, 579**_  
_**Summary; It was nights like these where Dean couldn't escape the screaming that went on his mind. It was a constant battle between drinking himself to sleep or putting a bullet in his head. Sam was no stranger to feeling a sense of responsibility whenever he found Dean in these situations. He was falling into a familiar routine of caring for his older brother on the nights he decided "I'm fine" was utter horse crap. **_

_**A/N: I've written a versions of this before, but I like this is my favorite variation. **_

* * *

It wasn't an unfamiliar sight that Sam walked in on; Dean slumped on the floor against the foot of the bed in a dark, dirty hotel room. With a half empties bottle of whiskey loosely gripped in one hand. He was on the brink of unconsciousness, his head tossed and turned along his shoulders. He wore a pair of loose fitting over-worn jeans, with no belt or patching on the knees. His open flannel shirt revealed the sweat stains on his grey wife-beater. He would have opened his shirt when the alcohol began to overheat his body.

Sam merely closed the door behind him and naturally fell into the routine of motions that would come next. And it wasn't an unfamiliar sight to see Dean's pistol in his sweaty palm beside him. No, this was a very familiar sight and one that had played itself out more frequently now than before. Before he could reach him, Dean passed out.

Sam gently removed the pistol from Dean's hand and the bottle of whiskey from the other, and set them together on the table beside the television set. His next move was to pull Dean to his feet as best he could and lay him to rest on the hard mattress. It was harder with his brother completely unconscious now, there was no half-minded assistance, but he managed. Sam only removed Dean's flannel shirt from his shoulders in a hope the cool midnight air would breeze over his damp, sweaty body and allow the temperature to cool.

The room seemed to get darker now as Sam perched himself on the edge of the neighboring bed. He held his fists against his chin and examined his brother's body; watching his chest rise and set with each small breath Dean took. He couldn't help but imagine horrors that he knew played in his head. Dean had always been the rock between them; always holding it together and keeping his calm. But Sam was not oblivious; he knew it was an act. He imagined other things too, like the weight of the guilt and blame that lingered on Dean's shoulders; the guilt and blame he'd awarded himself.

The thoughts made him weep, because he knew there was nothing he could ever say to fix any of it. He wanted nothing more than to rid Dean of his guilt, to fill the emptiness, to accompany for the loneliness, to cut away the feeling of alienation, to ridden the despair that shadowed his features. Sam wept into his hands. He muffled his sobs as best he could, although knowing nothing was going to wake Dean while he was in this intoxicated state.

The gun hadn't been in Dean's hand by coincidence, and Sam had half a mind to retrieve it from the table and shoot Dean in his sleep, to shoot him straight in his head and relieve him of his misery. Then he'd turn the gun on himself and leave the mess for the morning staff. The fantasy only made him weep harder.

**2 HOURS EARLIER**

Dean roamed the quite motel room; walking from wall to wall with his hands tapping against each other. He would never admit it any one, but these were the beginnings of his triggers. Without a case to research or company to converse with he was practically a sitting duck. He could feel the triggers burning and crawling their heavy way to the surface.

His skin was burning, his mind racing, his body felt like it was floating. Panic started washing over him, but he couldn't give in to the sensation.

It was late, almost 11:30.

The voices came quietly, then soon erupted into a loud roar that buzzed in Dean's ears. Insulting him and reminding him of all the mistakes he'd made, all the pain he'd caused for people, and all the faults that rested on his shoulders. It was like listening to full volume music through headphones that were irremovable. Dean scratched at the sides of his head anxiously, his wondering pace around the room quickened. He was frightened by the disembodied voices but they were no strangers to him for he knew they were always there; yelling insults and ugly truths.

He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the television stand and poured himself a swig of the liquid. He downed the drink in one gulp and was already pouring the next as he swallowed. The voices kept whispering between his ears; spitting their comments in harsh tongues. Dean's hands shook as he continued to drink. He'd hoped the presence of the toxic would drown the sorrow and anxiety and force him into a slumber where he could escape the loathing until morning, or blind his conscious thinking and allow him the courage to kill himself.

The shadows in the room hissed. From all four corners he heard their muffled whispers. He couldn't care less about the judgment of others; he'd decided himself to be worthless and unimportant. He'd decided he was a burden on everyone and knew the only way to better their lives was to end his but he'd never done it, and that shy coward that lived inside him gave him another reason to despise himself. His invisible company seemed to agree with his thoughts, and in a sudden burst of rage he pitched the glass in his hand at the bathroom wall and screamed into the darkness.

He dug his palms into his eye sockets and stumbled back unbalanced; knocking into the television set before correcting his stance. He drew his hands away and heaved, his eyes swelled and his heart raced.

He opened his eyes and felt intimidated by the darkness; as if a thousand gunmen stood before him, denying him mercy against his fate. His eyes began to swell, his heart raced, beads of sweat rolled down his neck and dampened his hair line.

His head felt like it was going to explode. He couldn't escape any of it; the isolation, the self-loathing, the disappointment. He could drink his way to the next morning and still feel nothing. He could take out an entire Vampire nest and still feel nothing. He could beat himself until his blood soaked his clothes and still feel nothing. Famine had once told him he was already dead inside, so what difference would it make if he was dead on the outside too?

He hadn't been paying attention when his hands automatically lifted his pistol from the table beside the television set, or when his legs carried him to the foot of his bed. He perched himself on the edge and looked down at the cold heavy weight in his hands. He still held the neck of the whiskey bottle through his fingers, but his attention had completely moved to the gun.

He didn't cry, though he wanted to.

Dean sat silently for almost half an hour. He imagined turning the barrel on himself and pulling the trigger. He imagined watching his body fly back onto the bed or slump onto the floor. He imagined the pool of blood that would pour from his wound; he imagined the state Sam would find him in.

The invisible companies soothed their voices and now suddenly were encouraging towards Dean. Their encouragement was like easing a small child to shake hands with a stranger; they whispered reassuring things in Dean's ears and relaxed him into the idea of what he should do next. The continued with pleas and promises that Sam was going to be better off; happier and able to live a fuller life.

The next morning Sam was abruptly woken by the grumbling sounds of his brother beside him. He allowed himself a moment of scolding as he reflected on the silent promise he'd made weeks ago to stay awake the whole night when Dean got like this; he didn't want to be asleep if Dean suddenly woke and needed help.

Dean tossed around a few times before possessing enough strength to sit his body up. It was a lazy pull, and as Dean began to search the room he caught Sam smoothly perching himself on his own bed.

"How do you feel?" Sam asked.

"How do you think I feel?" Dean replied; his voice weak and gravely. He turned his back to Sam and lowered his head to the pillow again.

Sam didn't say another word. He hadn't specified which topic he'd been referring too, the effects of the alcohol or actual emotions, but there was no need to. He pushed himself to his feet once he heard the soft puffs of Dean's breath.


End file.
